The Saint
by the stargate time traveller
Summary: Non magic Harry. Abandoned as a child, Harry Potter is known as Simon Templar, the Saint. Part One of Two.
1. Chapter 1

**I don't own the Saint or Harry Potter, both are written by brilliant authors.**

**The Saint.**

**The Stranger of mystery.**

Simon Templar was frowning as he watched from the back of his car at the joint where the Kingpin who'd sprung up in recent months had taken to using as his base of operations in the city. If Templar had been sitting in the front then he would've been seen, but from the back he couldn't, but he was sitting in the shadows, waiting for his opportunity. He saw, from his angle, the two ape like guards, both of them weren't armed, but Templar wasn't stupid enough to believe they weren't capable of tearing his body to pieces.

He checked his watch. 11.34. Another twenty minutes before he made his move. Templar leant back in his seat, frowning as he prepared himself for the boring and dull wait, but he didn't turn on the radio to listen to music or the news, the sound may attract attention, and he hadn't brought a book to read either. He needed his eyes and ears on the job, and surveilance needed altertness. He removed a nicotine patch from the box next to him, and slapped it on his forearm, closing his eyes as the drug did its work, and made him relax. He let out a long sigh. Templar didn't smoke, he didn't want his arteries clogged with the shite you found in cigarettes, and the patch meant he didn't have to force others to smell the crappy smell, and the bad breath and stench you got when you sat next to smokers on the bus or train was happily absent.

Simon checked his gun, making sure it was loaded, and holstered it, also checking on Anne and Bella, his two daggers. They were ready.

At 11.54, Templar made his move, and marched towards the guarded doors, looking around as he did. The two thugs, ordered to allow members through, didn't bother looking at the stranger who'd walked through their doors. The stranger in the long trenchcoat, rakishly tilted hat, and the dark glasses may've appeared suspicious to anyone else, but the thugs did not stop him.

Templar was happy about that, he'd been nervous watching from his car. He'd thought he might be needing a bulletproof vest made from concrete. As he walked through the corridors of the restaurant, Templar listened as he walked through, listening for other people coming towards him or walking away. Templar was surprised that no one had frisked him, but he couldn't help but feel the new Kingpin was a complacent fool.

Finally Templar arrived at the double doors where the meeting was, and there was a guard standing outside. He was more like a gorilla in a suit. As Templar approached and was about to walk into the room, the gorilla stopped him. " Yous gotta be searched." The mans voice was like partially dried cement grinding together with gravel.

" Of course," Templar replied amiably, holding his arms out as if he wanted to hug the guard, although he was sure his arms wouldn't go all the way around. The guard came over to him, sniffing as he came. Simon rolled his eyes as he realised the ape was sniffing his aftershave and his deoderant.

" It's lynx," he added helpfully.

The guard looked up, a puzzled frown on his slow, crinkled face, " Lynx?"

" Yes, it helps attracts the ladies," Templar replied helpfully and kindly.

The guard nodded confusedly, and Simon knew he wasn't going to meet his next chess buddy here. As the guard bent down again to search the stranger, that was when Templar struck with Bella, which he used to drive into the man's skull.

The Kingpin was just starting the meeting when Templar walked in. Like a schoolroom, the Kingpin's assistant, a blonde haired buxom woman wearing a short skirt and a top that showed her cleavage, gritted her teeth and read out the 20 names. She hated being here, and she hated how her boss had simply roped her out of school, and made her into his whore.

When she finished, the Kingpin stood up. He was a fairly youngish man in his early twenties, which was why the girl had been roped in because of how good looking he was. He had started his career doing drugs, moving onto prostitution, then into smuggling and other criminal activities, even murder and assasination. Mark Leisner had grown up in a slum when he'd joined drug gangs, smuggling crack and cocaine to kids, and took his fair share to help him through school and college, and he started to see himself as superior than any one else, even the sons of bitches in front of him, and the stupid slut he had roped in to be his fuckslave. He believed he had a class no other criminal possessed. He dressed in the best clothes, dined at the best restaurants where the managers fell over themselves to serve him, no matter how packed they were, and he went to the cinema each week. He lived in a classy apartment on the river, and he drove the fastest cars.

" We have a problem," Leisner announced. " The Saint."

Everyone looked at each other with awe and fear at the name Saint. The Saint had been an element in the underworld for years, a criminal genius who robbed banks but no one had been able to figure out how he managed it, smuggling operations that went wrong when the money went missing, and the merchandise fell into the hands of the police.

The crooks in London, and indeed everywhere where the Shadow of the Saint fell, a childish scrawl of a stickman figure with a stupid halo marked the scene of his crimes, and where criminals feared to tread. The Saint was not like other criminals, he had no need for gangs or help, it was just him. And he left no survivors of his raids.

If the Saint was sniffing around, it meant trouble. Each of the men present had been well rewarded by Leisner, and they knew that if the Saint appeared, they would lose everything including their lives.

Leisner leant forward, " So, here what we-" He was stopped when the doors were kicked open, and a tall, black clad man strode in with a rakish hat and a coat appeared, holding a bloodied knife. The girl screamed.

" No worries, sweets," the man said in a fake Australian accent. " I ain't gonna hurt you." In a regular accent, he carried on, his voice dark and cold. " The rest, not so sure about."

The stranger turned to face Leisner, and finally he turned his head up slightly so then the drug lord could see the lips and tanned skin of the stranger. " Imagine you were running scared, desperate. You set up a meeting in secret. Imagine you were preparing for revenge, but just before you start, you look up when the door opens, and your precious protection is no more, and you find the face of the devil himself. Hello, Kingpin." As the voice had been speaking, the man looked up and everyone saw the green eyes, the black hair and the angularly handsome face.

Leisner was breathing hard, " Saint?"

The Saint smiled genially at them all, some of them were starting to take out their guns, but the Saint was ready for that, and he gathered his energy for the fight. " The one, the only," he winked, " and the best."

All hell broke loose when before the Saint moved forward, and everyone started firing their weapons, but the Saint had grabbed hold of one of the gang leaders, and all the other leaders started firing, pumping bullets into the man's body. The Saint used the cover to fire from behind the man, using his angle to kill four of them before he threw the body aside, the girl still screaming in a corner.

The Saint leapt over the table, corkscrewing over to the other side, and throwing small blades into the air which impacted into the faces and chests of another four of the leaders before using Bella to slice the necks of two slow moving gang lords. Eleven down, nine to go. The Saint landed next to the table, and three of the thugs were startled by his sudden presence, but they managed to regain their senses to open fire on him. The Saint shot under the table like a startled cat, grabbing a machine gun one of the leaders had left when he died, and the leaders started to fire bullets into the table. The nine surviving leaders concentrated their fire at the table, but they didn't expect what the Saint did next. Using the cover of the table, the Saint fired back without looking into the eyes of his enemies to do it. The leaders found themselves cut down by machine gun fire, like trees in a forrest cut down by their trunks. Brought down to his level, shocked, disorientated and losing blood, the leaders were either shot dead by the Saint, or he simply left them to bleed to death. It made no difference to him. The loss of his gang lords finally prompted Leisner to try and escape. He tried to run out of the room, but the Saint was quicker, and Leisner lost an ankle to the Saint's handgun.

Cautiously, the Saint crawled out of his hole and stood up, surveying what was once a meeting place. Some of the leaders were dead, or dying, and Leisner was bleeding. Hearing a sound from behind him, the Saint whipped around pointing the gun at the girl. Seeing her makeup smeared with tears, and her eyes full of fear, the Saint lowered his gun arm.

" What's your name?" He asked her.

" Jane. Jane Meadows." She replied.

The Saint eyed her, observing her age and taking in every little thing about her. " What're you doing here?"

Jane spat at Leisner, " That bastard happened. He had me watched, you see, and he had me grabbed on my way to school." The tears came down harder now for the girl, and the Saint moved towards her, holding out his arms. The girl fell into his embrace, and sobbed her heart out. " He raped me, had his gang rape me, then he made me into his personal sex toy. I want to go home."

The Saint whispered, " I think I can arrange that, but first I need to take care of business."

* * *

Jane Meadows shivered even though the Saint's car was warm and the mysterious criminal had made sure she had a blanket, but the Saint had made sure he'd locked the door so then she wouldn't get away. For the last few months Jane had been brutally raped and tortured by Leisner and his thugs, and then on the night of a meeting where he'd parade her up and down, a trophy, the whole lot of them were slaughtered by a one man army.

The Saint.

Jane had of course heard of the Saint, who hadn't? But seeing him was something completely different, and they weren't that far off, age wise, but she didn't make a comment on it since it was none of her business, and she was far too in shock about what had happened to her to care about anything else. All she wanted was to go home, and put this behind her, but she knew it wouldn't be that simple. She'd been raped, abused, tortured, she needed counselling, and badly. After the Saint had retrieved his weapons, they'd left the room, the pair of them had left the restaurant, the Saint had knocked the two thugs out when he pretended to show them something, an old trick but the thugs had fallen for it, hook, line and sinker. Then he had put her into his car, and locked the door but he had opened his boot, and then he'd left her and went back into the restaurant carrying a black bundle.

When the tall figure of the Saint returned, Jane nearly jumped out of her seat when she saw the Saint was carrying something, something big and heavy, but the weight did not seem to bother the Saint. Big enough to be...a body, he was carrying a body, she realised. Her mind raced as she tried to figure out who it was, then she realised it was probably Leisner, though why the Saint would bother with him was beyond her.

* * *

After the Saint had dropped off Jane at her home and watched as the family had a merry reunion, he drove off. The Saint wasn't the sort of man to take gratitude, besides he had work to do.

When he stopped his car at a closed Underground station, the Saint dragged Leisner's body from his car wearing his hat and big coat for disguise, and with a few minutes work, he managed to pick the lock of the gates, and drag the body down the escalators to the platforms below. The Saint treated Leisner with great care, and he had no hesitation in making sure he was still unconscious. When the Saint got the man down to the platform, he simply left the crime boss down there. He checked the man's neck and felt for his pulse. He was still, remarkably, alive and breathing, but it was shallow.

The Saint looked around, nodding. This was the perfect place for the crime lord to be found and besides before each station was opened they were always carefully checked over before the first train and customers arrived and they would reopen again in a few hours. Leisner had time, there was just one thing he needed to do first before he left.

Taking a spray from his pocket, he sprayed in blue paint his calling card.

The Saint had struck again.


	2. Chapter 2

**The Saint.**

**The Employer.**

* * *

Simon Templar had been watching the car, a posh job, parked outside the nightclub for the past 20 minutes, knowing that the car belonged to his next employer. Templar hated being thought of as an employee, he was usually a free man, but there were times when it became necessary for the Saint to take work and also solve problems.

The Saint wasn't a normal criminal, something he took great pride in. They would probably need to invent a new word just to describe the Robin Hood mentality of the Saint, who would help a family look for a child in places where the police had no influence, no feelers and informants. Half of the Saint's basic income came from that endeavour, but he didn't brag about it. When he ever found himself employed, he would make them wait for a while, giving him the perfect time to check how many in the party there were, something he called the Canary tactic. Instead of going in as himself as he appeared, the Saint would disguise himself, change his hair colour with a wig, put contact lenses on, and put on another accent, but no matter how much he changed his basic appearance, Simon Templar refused to let go of his basic paranoia; the police had not discovered his habit of taking on...mundane employment, but if they did then he would have to look for a different means of income that was not industrial espionage, theft, con artistry on con artists.

Wearing a simple looking jacket and slacks with unpolished shoes, Templar got out of his car - a simple model that wasn't flashy and was rented- and glanced at the bearded face in the mirror with dirty brown hair, a far cry from his raven black hair, and the blue contact lenses disguised his green eyes.

Simon Templar walked into the nightclub, and had to hold back a smirk at the number of gyrating girls, but he had to cringe when he heard the sounds of the music playing way too loud. Templar didn't often go to clubs or discos, places like this, not unless he wanted to get seriously close to drunk.

He walked up to the bar, where the young man who was around Templar's own age, maybe younger, but Templar didn't know nor care. " Wot?" The other guy grunted, his voice making him sound like he'd crawled out of a swamp somewhere in central London.

Holding back his disdain, Templar leant forward, and in a fake French accent, " My name is Paul Aurelian, I'm here to discuss a job with the Scotts."

The bartender rolled in some chewing gum into his gob, and Templar had to withhold his impatience. " Hold on." The preteen grunted, then slicked back his already gelled hair, and he left the bar and Templar behind. For the duration of his wait, Templar observed the crowd. To someone from the normal world, the club was just that, a club, but to a man who lived as dangerously as the Saint the club was a jungle, with the clubbers as the tigers, the lions, the bears. Templar recognised the majority of the clubbers as the scum of the Earth. Some of the girls were part of a gang called the Harlots, and even the Saint kept away from them, but he knew them well enough. They were a bunch of psychos, and their primary m.o was to simply raids clubs and rob the patrons. Templar averted his gaze, but he kept them in his vision. If the harlots were planning on launching a raiding heist, he wanted to be prepared.

Keeping the harlots in range of his vision, Templar checked the others in the club; it was like a supermarket if you wanted to pick up scum. Templar also saw a number of police officers, men and women, and luckily they didn't realise he was there. Templar wondered if they were undercover or if they were regulars, but he wasn'\t going to say a word. The police wasn't his problem.

The bartender came back, still chewing his gum. " Go up the stairs, they're waiting."

Without a comment, Templar walked carefully around the bar making his movements as inconspicuous as he could; if the police were here undercover, then they would soon be reporting the presence of someone well dressed going to meet the Scotts, but Templar wasn't going to play hide and seek with police, not this time.

The walk to the Scotts room wasn't as long as Templar had thought it was going to be. Templar knew enough of the gang to know that they had eluded capture from the police for a long time. The Scotts were wanted for a number of offences, and they did it in an unusual way. They had others do the dirty work for them, like cogs in a finely polished machine before the Scotts put it all together. None of those outside the organisation knew what they were doing, they were just pawns in a larger game. The Saint had heard of gangs like that before, but he had never worked with one just as they never invited him along. The reputation of the Saint made that sort of business implausible. The Saint had always had the long term plan to bring down the Scotts, but they worked alone, and always through proxies which irritated the Saint no end since he couldn't find even a rumour relating to their activities, because they always appeared legitimate on the outside. The Saint had spent years trying to find a proxy willing to help him find 'work' amongst their ranks, so then he could bring them down.

The Scotts were responsible for a number of fraudulant crimes in Europe, with ties to syndicates ranging from fixing sports games, but their top most industries was child exploitation and the exploitation of foreign girls in other countries, and kidnapping and drugging of women to become drug hooked prostitutes. The Saint had found dozens of girls who had undergone this hell, and he had worked hard to try and find them and find out who it was who did this, but he wasn't lucky. None of the pimps or brothel owners knew a damn thing, the girls had been bought by them, like cattle at a market.

The blatant violation of human rights sickened the Saint, but that was not the only reason he was here. If he played his cards right, then the Saint would be able to find out names of the gang and the organisation, find out who all the connections were and bring them down in one go.

When he got to the rooms, he was frisked with a metal detector and only his knife was removed by a thin faced wiry man. It was his only weapon. Templar hated carrying guns, too simple and crude. He prefered knives and swords to guns.

The wire man led the Saint into another room, and the Saint had to bite his tongue to stop the bile rising in his mouth, and he was glad he was wearing sunglasses so then this pile of flesh. In front of him, sitting like a Sultan on a throne, was another well dressed man, fat and red in the face from more intense heartbeats to keep his body going, with two scantily clad women with slight bruises on their bodies. They were clearly drugged as their eyes appeared glassy and vacant, and they looked no older than 12 - 15 years old.

It took Templar a while to hold in the urge to grab the man by the neck and snap it, but if he wanted to get into the organisation then he would need to regain control of his emotions.

The man barely looked up from his debauchery as the wiry man bent down and whispered into his ear. When the wiry man backed away, the fat man looked up, his lips never leaving the thin and pale form of the teenage girl whom was smothering him with kisses.

" You're the Saint?" He asked, and Simon could see the man's piggy little eyes narrow in interest.

Templar shook his head, " No, he is my employer, and working on something else at the moment. He sent me here to verify your summons to work with you. He has told me to ask for an explanation of why you want him to work for you, and these same reasons are to be given to him before he could agree."

The corpulent man understood and was satisfied. " I see. You are a proxy as well, then?"

Templar had been thinking if this man was a Scott, or a patsy, and he was seeing his suspicions of the latter were correct. " Not a proxy, an employee. The Saint is a generous employer, and his rewards are both beneficial and generous."

The Saint was lying, he didn't employ anyone.

The fat man didn't need to know that. " The Scotts want the Saint to do a job for us."

That didn't ring true in the Saint's mind, and he had no trouble being skeptical. " Why do you need my employer, I thought your organisation already had people to do jobs?"

The fat man didn't reply at once, but when he did he put on an oily smile before slapping the girls away from his groin, making the Saint restrain the urge to reach over and kill him. " The job we have in mind requires someone of...singular talent, and that is where the Saint comes in. Have you heard of Apex international?"

" Yes, I have," Templar replied, keeping his voice neutral though his mind was racing. Apex International wasn't a normal company, it was a specialist company. They worked for the military, making better weapons, better transportation, better computers, but their lines were more complex than that. On the outside they made faster tanks, heavier armour, planes, but on the inside...Simon had suspicions their main work lay in secret government work. The evidence was too high to suggest otherwise. Simon had never had that much interest in them because he simply couldn't see the need, though he was aware their security systems were highly advanced, and even the Saint wouldn't try to break in, but if he wanted to make nice with these people then he would have to break in, but it was going to be tricky. Not to mention dangerous, especially for him, but maybe he wouldn't have to...

Apex was built like a fortress, and even industrial spies were careful there, and the worst problem was that there were no employers who knew what they were doing, they were, like the Scotts, cogs in a machine, none of their people knew anything about what anyone was working on at anytime, they just did what the higher ups wanted according to a set of specific instructions, but they would never see what they had been doing with their work. They would simply be moved on to another project, with the same frustrating lack of information about what they were making and doing, never knowing whether their work was for good or evil. Industrial spies found they couldn't infiltrate anyone because the company had ties with all the governments they worked for, mostly America and Europe and Australia, and they had access to information and security systems that could stop anyone from hacking them on the net since they kept the most vital know how about what they did locked away and separated from the computers linked to the net, and files on industrials spies and sabatoers. Templar knew that dozens of people had tried to infiltrate and spy, or destroy, parts of Apex, but they had failed. The prisons were full of people that could testify to that.

Pretending not to look concerned, Templar feigned almost ignorance, though he had to keep his voice calm and level, and his eyes from reaching his eyebrows, which were presently raised into the wigs hairline. " Are they not that company with roots in every government's military and defence?"

Fat man nodded, " That's the one. We have a spy in their higher ups, a snitch who'se told us that Apex is trying to build a new kind of flying submarine. We can't access the plans, but you can." Fatty leant back, looking smug at his reasoning.

Resisting the urge to scratch his now itching head under the wig, Templar leant back in his seat. " How's my employer meant to do that?"

Fatty spread his sausage like fingers, the gaudy rings glinting. " Bring your boss here in two days time, if he agrees," he handed the Saint a card, who checked it over. It was a simple cafe in London.

Templar looked at the card but he kept his eyes on the fat lump in front of him. There had to be a catch, somewhere. " What does my employer get in return?" He asked, making sure his accent remained in its disguise, and trying to sound both interested and yet disinterested at the same time.

Fatty smiled, reminding the Saint of a pig drooling over a pile of food. " The Saint will become one of the richest men in the world, and the most famous for breaking inside The Vault."

The Vault was Apex's nickname, and it was fitting.

Templar pocketed the card delicately inside a pocket, like a man putting a bookmark inside the pages of a novel, before looking into fatty's eyes. " Well," he said, standing up and moving towards the door. " If my employer wishes to then he will meet you tomorrow."

" Not me," the fat bloated one replied. " Someone else."

Templar cocked his head, and just as he was walking towards the door, then he remembered there were police officers in the club, not to mention the Harlots. Templar had no wish to be seen, if the police officers were not bent, if they were on an undercover assignment then their orders would be to observe and note down who came up those stairs, what time, what they looked like etc. It may be that Templar's present disguise would never again be used, he just couldn't risk it. He had every confidence his disguise would never be linked to the Saint identity, the identity he treated as his own, but he had no wish to compromise it.

" Is it possible for me to go out a backway?" Templar asked seriously, the first time he had spoken without seeming indifferent the entire time.

The fat man didn't question him, either he knew of the police in the club, or he thought the Saint's employee talked too much and someone was following him. Either way, the fat man gestured to goon 1, an ape with arm muscles thicker than an oak trees trunk.

" Bruno will lead you out."

* * *

After Bruno had handed Templar the knife back, and lead him down the flight of stairs they had taken a trip in a different direction to the club floor, and out of the back entrance. Templar's polite 'thanks' was met by a grunt by the neanderthal. Keeping careful watch, Templar looked left and right, not just for traffic but for any likely and logical signs of someone watching. His eyes took in everything of the street. There were a number of buildings looking down at him, but if there was anyone looking down at him, they were doing to good a job of hiding from his eyes.

Templar walked back to his car, delighted he had rented the thing instead of purchasing it, but he knew he would have to abandon his Peter Aurelian identity completely, except in France. Opening the car, he drove away, and at once devoted a portion of his mind and criminal intellect into unravelling what he had found himself into this time.

Just because Templar had never tried to break inside Apex international, didn't necessarily mean he didn't keep tabs on those he knew had tried, and it was for the reason they had never done anything his investigations had revealed warranted his special attention. The board were as clean as a whistle, and he'd checked every last source, every last scrap of information he could lay his hands on.

Simon Templar, the Saint, had an extensive file on industrialists, entrepeneurs, corrupt businessmen and politicians that were the scum of the Earth, people who took advantage of those who couldn't defend themselves, and the most frustrating, or the most surprising thing was, Apex was clean. At least as far as the Saint was concerned, but now...

The idea of a flying submarine wasn't new, there were dozens of people and navies trying to achive something found only in science fiction, but the Saint could well imagine what the interest the Scotts had in such a project. If they stole the plans, and sold them, along with anything else that pertained to the project, then the Scotts would be amongst the first to be able to break into Apex, meaning it wasn't impossible afterall, but if the Saint was captured, the police and everyone else would think he was working on his own, which wasn't unreasonable. The Saint had done a lot of great work alone.

Simon breathed through his mouth, his mind still on his driving. He glanced at the rearview mirror, and saw there was a car following him. That broke him out of his thoughts as the Saint cursed himself as he realised he hadn't paid any attention to who might be behind him, and he couldn't see who was following him. His wig itched.

The Saint looked at the map, and decided to see whether this was a cop, or someone whom his paranoia had caught on the hook and line he'd cast after he'd left the club.

The car had not turned off at any junction.

It was still following him.

Had still been following him for the last hour. If that didn't prove to him the person behind him was police the Saint wasn't sure what wasn't. He sighed, wondering what he was going to do. Simon stepped on the accelerator, going much faster than the speed limit allowed, and he started to swerve the car around to shift around the other drivers, who honked at him angrily. The Saint ignored them. He had to lose the car following him. As he sped up past the traffic, he realised he was close by one of his flats in Central London, and if he could reach it...get ahead of the police behind him...

Reaching into his bottomless pit of luck, the Saint sped the car faster and faster until the traffic behind, in front, and to the sides were a blur as the car moved so fast it was dangerous. His heart beat increased, his adrenaline surged through him as the animal instinct to survive broke through the dams pushing the primitve and the civilised apart, surging through him. I will not be captured, the Saint thought furiously, keeping his eyes and ears aware of what was coming at him and what was behind him. If he crashed into a car coming from left or right...

A set of traffic lights appeared in the distance, and the Saint applied maximum speed to the car. The engine and the car thrummed as there was a vibration, and as he got through, the lights changed to red, but the Saint ignored the colour, and only just managed to avoid being hit by two other cars coming in from the right and the left. More honks, but the Saint ignored them as he worked to lose the car even further. He needed to change the license plates of the car.

After a few more minutes of dangerous driving, Templar managed to bring the car under control, and started slowing down. He had to find a backstreet without cameras to change the plates and reach home, or better yet the place he'd rented the car from. The police must've radioed ahead for the details on the car he was using, and they would know he was riding in a rented car, terrible qualities in a getaway vehicle.

After changing the plates and removing his disguise, the Saint drove normally towards the car rental. When he arrived, he saw a police car outside the door. Keeping out of sight, the Saint took off the plates and wrote a brief note and left a nice amount of money.

He slapped the horn on the wheel after he'd cleaned up.

* * *

Stephen Smithers, a man in his mid forties, was a nervous man. He was a thin man and wore a snappy suit, all the better to sell cars, but he had never found himself in something like this. The police had asked him for help in their enquiries before, but they had never asked for help like this. One of his cars had sped over the speed limit in the city, and was being driven by a man seen in the vicinity of a club under surveilance.

" Tell me this again," Smithers ordered one of the plain clothes men, who was looking impatient.

The constable repeated it with a sharp tongue, and Smithers bristled under it, but he said nothing. He couldn't blame the police for this.

" Tell us more about this guy who rented the car." One of the officers asked.

Smithers sighed, he had been over this already. " He's french, he had a clean licence, and he was polite, well dressed. He seemed like one of those millions of rich men who wanted a fast ride, and I obliged." The car salesman put his head in his hands, and groaned at the amount of rest. Before either of the police officers could say a word, there was a car horn sounded, but instead of going out it remained on.

After a minute, the sound died, and one of the Salesman's assistants ran inside. " Sir," he said, ignoring the police officers. " The ferrari's outside, the one sold to that french bloke the other day."

The assistant had to blink in surprise, he would've been excused for thinking it was like being in a race when the police officers rushed out of the room, followed by Mr. Smithers.

Smithers saw it was the ferrari, and the police men were holding a piece of paper. They looked grim. When they saw Mr Smithers run towards them, they looked almost apologetic. Surprised, he asked them what was wrong.

One of the policemen read the note out aloud, " Dear Mr. Smithers. I'm sorry for having sped your car like that, and involving your business in my nefarious schemes, but I'm a man leading a dangerous life. Inside the car is a large and hopefully sufficient amount of money for your company, hopefully more than you make in a year.

Please accept my apology, the Saint."


	3. Chapter 3

**The Saint.**

**Interview with the Scotts.**

The Saint sat down, looking as relaxed and mellow as he could in a room with only a chair, a table and a pitcher of water with ice in it. Templar eyed the drink warily, wondering if they were deliberately trying to be unimaginative, or they were simply fuelling his paranoia. The water may look harmless, but the Saint hadn't gotten to his present position without a hint of caution, and he didn't know if the water was drugged or poisoned. He ignored the water, hoping they weren't going to force him to drink it. If they did suggest it he would be convinced something was up. Then again, they could say nothing, and it would still be drugged. No matter, he wouldn't risk it. He then checked the walls and panels for hidden vents for poisonous gas. Some may say the Saint was being paranoid, but he didn't relax until he'd checked the entire room. He may have appeared carefree, but he wasn't feeling that inside. Yesterday he'd received a call from the Scotts for that interview for a job, and today a car had met him at a predetermined time and place in the city, and now here he was in a room the Scotts clearly used for their recruitment drives. As he looked around the bare room, Simon couldn't help but wonder about their mental faculties. This is the kind of room you'd expect to find in a James Bond film. Templar wasn't stupid, he knew he'd been watched, and he was proven right. He couldn't help but sigh as he looked around the room, seeing a patch of mirror on the wall. One way mirror, probably. No, definitely. They were watching him, and Templar had the feeling they were here already.

The moment he'd sat himself down in the chair, a voice spoke over a radio. " You are not the Saint."

Simon quirked his brow. The voice sounded muffled, distorted. But the words was a statement, not a question. " Oh," he drawled carefully, " how do you figure that out?"

" You came to the club yesterday under a different name. You said you were an employee of the Saint."

Templar chuckled; he'd known this case would be a risk, but he'd come prepared. " Do you really think I would let a mere employee negotiate for such an important job as Amex?" Simon had to wince invisibly at the level of self important arrogance he was mixing into his question, his body language, but it was important. The Scotts needed to trust him, to see he was as ingenious and risk taking as they, inventive and double crossing.

Despite not being able to learn anything about their gang in the past, Templar had scraped enough of the rotting flesh that made up the gang to know they always used proxies, always worked behind the scenes, manipulating underlings like puppets. That was primarily what had made him take a disguise the way he had.

The voice was silent for a moment. " You took a risk, most of the people we've recruited didn't have the initiative to carry out such a plan."

Templar bowed his head, not as a sign of thanks or respect, but to acknowledge the compliment. " True, but the best risks are meant for those with the brain to carry them out."

" Wise words, Saint," the voice replied.

A click sounded, indicating the mike had been turned off. Simon waited patiently, trying to keep any trepidition out of his body language. This had to succeed.

* * *

" Are you sure? He is the Saint." A man asked nervously in the control room behind the one way mirror. He was looking at the Saint with a hint of weary disappointment; he was not what he'd imagined.

Another man replied confidentally, " He also disguised himself to take a risk to meet our representative. Number One will be pleased. Our organisation has wanted, for the Amex project, a thief of the same calibre as the Saint."

A third voice, this time a woman, added with the same confidence of voice 2, but the wariness of voice 1. " I agree the organisation has been waiting for a thief of Simon Templar, but I still have cause for concern. No one in the underworld have been able to kill the Saint, let alone rope him to do a job like this. Besides, the fact the Saint may have been looking for us is a cause for concern."

" What do you mean?"

The woman behind voice 3 was quiet for the moment, then she started speaking. " This sounds a bit too perfect, too convenient. Simon Templar is a thief of the greatest calbre, calculating and cunning. We don't know for sure if the Saint himself hasn't tried to rob Apex before, or was behind some of the attempted thefts in the past. Maybe even betraying them. If so, why try and join the Organisation now?"

Voice 1 nodded grudgingly. " You have a point."

" Regardless, Number One will make a decision based on this interview about what to do with the Saint afterwards."

" Afterwards?" Voice 1 asked, his nervousness returning. " You mean-?"

" The interview's outcome has been pre-ordained. Number One has a score to settle with Simon Templar, and this is the one time the Saint will join his brethren, playing with a harp."

* * *

The moment the voice clicked off, Simon knew the people on the other side of the one way mirror were confering. He wasn't concerned with that, it was just another fact of the Scotts, the clearly spent a lot of time examining every detail. Templar respected them for that, but he didn't respect them for making him wait that length of time.

The Saint sat very still, then he stretched himself out in his seat to make himself as content looking as he could. Finally the voice returned. " We would like to ask you some basic questions."

Templar nodded. " I understand," he replied tonelessly.

" What do you know of Apex?"

Simon smiled, his lips quirked almost cruelly, humourously. " Government contractors, they work on major military projects. No one has been able to blackmail any of their scientists or workers because of extreme background checking. You can't apply to them as a mere cleaner, even, not unless your background has been checked over and over again. Their security system is the best in the world, it makes Fort Knox look like a backstreet jewellery store. They have claws and fingers into many other smaller firms, buying them out of trouble to show a benevolent business front, but then again as the saying goes, the best place to hide is in plain sight, and that's what Apex does. It hides in plain sight without anyone truly knowing what happens in those laboratories, and you can't even bribe any of them. All the workers are kind of indoctrinated, their families are looked after by the company, being given a little something extra to keep them happy. That sort of loyalty to the company has a price, I've found."

" And what price is that?" Simon had to admit, for a distorted voice it did sound intrigued. He answered honestly. " If a family is poor and struggling, and then one of them is lucky enough to get work for Apex, then the families problems are washed away, but if that worker betrays them Apex will retaliate by simply withdrawing the money that family needs to live by. I seen it before, in companies around the world. Its one of the most efficient means of ensuring industrial espionage is kept to a bare minimum."

A pause, then the voice asked its next question. " You have great insight into Apex's workings. Have you used that intelligence to break in?"

Simon smirked, looked down at his toes as he answered the question in a way that told his listeners and questioners he thought they were being a tad naive. " I have insight into Apex's workings because I've investigated it thoroughly. As part of my MO, as I am sure you are aware, I go after corruption, which is why I call myself the Saint. I have seen corruption in the most least expected places, and it sickens me. As a matter of routine, I investigate every company, large or small, to determine if the workers are mistreated. I don't steal for myself, but for them, to inspire hope."

" Like Robin Hood?" Was that skepticism in that voice?

Simon shrugged, " Professional interest," he corrected, not wanting to get into a debate about his personal code of ethics. " And to answer your question, no I haven't used my intelligence to break into Apex."

" Why not?"

" I didn't see the need," Simon admitted truthfully, though he kept his thoughts to himself. " Apex produces most of what this country uses in the way of electronics, and its a vital industry. If I tried interfering, it could put jobs in jeopardy. I don't want that."

The voice was silent for a while, then the question Simon had been waiting for was asked. " Can you break in?"

Simon considered the answer carefully. It wasn't a simple yes or no answer, it was a concise question. It needed an honest answer. " I have never tried to break in because of the security system. Its not a normal system, of that I am positive about. If I tried probing it without knowing its details, I can't find a weakness. If I did then it would be a different story."

The door clicked open. " Thank you, Mr Templar." The voice said in a businesslike way, clearly the interview, brief as it was, was over. " We shall contact you later today. Thank you for coming."

Simon was a little surprised by how the interview had abruptly ended, but he accepted it without question. Most of the questions had been the logical ones, not stupid ones.

He bowed as he stood up, " Thank you for allowing me to come." He replied. He walked out the door.

* * *

In another rented car for the day, the Saint drove home with one eye on the road, and the other behind him. There wasn't anything following him. That worried him more than a car actually taking the time to follow him. Templar had the feeling these people knew a lot about him, where he lived, what he did...that sort of thing.

Simon drove home, and resolved to wait for the answer to the interview.

Somehow he knew they would say yes.

**A / N I am so sorry for the amount of time its taken between this chapter and the last. I have been concentrating on writing short stories to sell to magazines, and other fanfictions. Well, I am back, and hopefully the next chapter won't be far behind. To my readers, thank you for being extra patient.**


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